Her first drink
by Grsaw
Summary: Spec Op shocktrooper Vancey learned how to move on from grief before joining squad E. The origin of the potential "Hammered". Rated M for smut.


When soldiers died on the line, their bodies would be transferred to the backline or buried in a shallow grave as their unit moved on with the fighting. Their war ended, but their friends, their units, moved on, carrying the fight. Vancey laughed at that conventional wisdom as she stood in front of her superior officer, gripping a bunch of cold, tainted dog tags in her hands.

"I'm sorry Vancey. The most I can do is transfer you to Edinburgh for retraining with a new unit. As a covert operation agent, I can't transfer you to another unit in the frontline. Your file is locked. Your fight is over." He said.

She didn't even bother to mount a defense. Her mind was too busy reliving over and over the moment she lost everything. From the first one to fall to the very last one, letting go of her hand as they exhaled their last breath. In the end, she couldn't even fight the same frontline to avenge them.

"Vancey."

"Yes."

"There's a train tomorrow morning at 0600. Best of luck."

Her grip tightened. She felt sweat inside her palm as if the blood on the dog tags had warmed up and ran on her skin. Her officer stood up and reached his hand out for a handshake. She couldn't let go of the dog tags.

The quarter for special op squad housed ten. Now it was just Vancey. She was so used to being the last one to enter the quarter, coming home to seeing everyone already settled on their beds after a long day of fighting and throwing banters across the small cozy tent. Today she entered an unlit quarter, emptied and quiet. Aside from her bunk, everything else had cleaned out. As if they wanted to erase all of her squad from the record, just a failed statistic. But they were right. It was her fault. She sat down on her bed, put her body to rest but unable to force her mind to do the same. It felt like those comedy movies where they put a person in front of a screen playing a terrible movie as torture. Except that Vancey couldn't even chuckle.

"Hey."

She looked up. Keigel was standing by her bedside.

"What time is it?"

"0100. Lights out time."

Keigel's voice trailed off.

"Right, sorry."

She wanted to stand up and went to turn off the light. But the best she could do was stumbling out of the bed and fell face first onto the ground. She didn't feel hurt. She didn't feel anything. Even Keigel's arms catching her and bringing her back into bed.

"I must turn off the light." She mumbled.

"Knock it off."

His shout woke her up. She flinched. Keigel had his hands on her shoulders and shaking her out of the slumber. She finally looked at Keigel in his eyes.

"How do you do it?" She murmured.

"Do what?"

"It hurts." Vancey started crying. Everything started hitting her at once. The hunger built up from three days in combat. The fatigue. The gunshot wounds that left bullets beneath her skin. Then the void, the loneliness, the guilt of being the only one to return. The numbness and adrenaline had worn off, and she found herself curling up, burying her face in Keigel's embrace. "It hurts." She cried. "Take it out." She groaned.

"Are you wounded? Didn't you check up at the first aid?"

"Take them out. Their voices. It hurt." She cried louder, looking up at Keigel's face that got pale and confused. Then she pressed her face into his. She threw the weight of a skinny twenty-five-year-old girl behind her push, latching onto his like a leech thirsty for blood. She was only thirsty for feeling, anything other than whatever was crowding out her stomach. She didn't get much. Keigel easily forced her off.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Vancey couldn't hear or see Keigel anymore. Her ears rung. Her eyes blurred from the tears and the flashing blinding explosion. Her body felt hot. The incendiary mortar that burned her friends alive now came back to finish its job. She unbuttoned her shirt and waded her arms wildly looking for the boots. "It hurts." She murmured as she removed her outfit, too tired to cry. "It burns." She opened her mouth gasping as if she was being burned, smoke choking her out of air.

When she pulled her tongue out panting like a dog, she felt something in her mouth. Maybe a toothbrush, cleaning her inside, poking against her throat and pressing her tongue down. No, something hard, maybe a metal rod the enemy used to pry words out of her mouth.

"Open your eyes."

She heard something but kept her eyes shut. The rod had gone out. But she knew the enemy was waiting for her to fall into their traps.

"Open your eyes."

She felt a warm palm, slightly tapping on her cheek. She gave up resisting. Keigel was sitting across from her, looking disgusted, still fully clothed.

"Just once. No more. Stop me whenever you want." He said.

Before the burning came back, she leaped into his catch, pressing her tongue against his again. It felt nothing like a rod, but a mere piece of meat. Something warm. Moist and sweet. Like the last supper she had with her squad before going to die. She removed herself from him temporarily, panting, mustering her final words.

"Please make it so I can't think about it anymore." She pleaded.

Keigel pressed her down onto the bed, blended his tongue with hers like two twisted snakes making love. The way he explored the inside of her mouth made her feel weak and vulnerable, but at the same time safe. Someone was inside her, with her. She was no longer out there alone, in the middle of a burning field.

She gasped for air in between his kiss, struggled to remove her shirt now clinging to her arms. Keigel ripped it off easily without letting her go. Then unbuttoned her shorts and slid his hand below. The raw and rough hand touched her so softly she got surprised. She had expected a powerful force, but instead received a gentle touch, simply caressed her butterfly and then slipped inside her womanhood. It hurt. But only physically. Like the pain of one bullet pierced through her skin. She felt wet. She had imagined it was blood, not this juice that was slow and sticky, trickled and dripped between his touch and her thighs.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

"I don't remember you having a goatee." She giggled like a mindless child, tying her hands around his neck.

"Does it tickle you?"

She kissed him again. He talked too much. Her body arched forward a little, yearning for more morphine to fill her wounds. Every gaping cut on her body cried out for more. Her tongue moved faster and more wildly, maybe as fast as his happy fingers making a mess down below.

"Ah wait, it tickles." She held back. It was like a moment of silence. The distance between them gave them clarity to see. His shirt slightly messed up and unbuttoned here and there. Her bare top with only a sports bra.

"You poor thing." He said. His fingers traced the bruises and scars running rampant on her body.

"It tickles."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. But soon if you don't continue." She smiled playfully.

"Hold on."

Keigel grabbed a pillow from the next bed and put it beneath her. Then he slowly stripped, each movement decisive and mindful. Like a machine gun being oiled and cleaned.

"Stop me if you're hurt."

Suddenly she blushed. Somehow she felt like such a child so young and naïve, embarrassing herself in front of such a man. She covered her face. Tears began to form for a different reason.

"I'm sorry. But I'm scared. Please."

"I'll be gently."

She could feel his raising her hip only slightly and massaging her vagina. The anticipation became almost unbearable, even worse than those few seconds before an operation began. But when it came, it came as intense as a gunfight. The first shot. The first thrust. The continuous shove like a machine gun cocking and recoiling, ramming her body every time it spat out a bullet. It was as painful as the butt of a gun hitting her shoulder. But now her entire body felt it, every single motion. The might of a lancer weighing down on her. Like a cover on top of her during an artillery barrage. She felt warm. And safe.

Keigel began to move faster. The pain became more intense. She groaned but refused to back down. She grabbed his hand and put it on her body.

"Touch me." She moaned. "I'm cold."

He obeyed. His hand was still wet with her water, smoothened the edges and roughs of a hand that had seen its years. Her skin felt each cut and scars on that hand as it touched, moving smoothly around her breast and playfully poking at the nipple. Then he touched her hair, tucking it behind her ears and sliding the fingers through the untucked curls. He lowered his head and started kissing her bare top, moving his lips as smoothly as he had his hands. It was such a strange feeling, being pounded below the hip while being caressed above the torso. But she cared not. Vancey felt comfortable now. She felt safe and warm. She closed her eyes completely, feeling the motions with her body. Her mind went empty, the kind of empty she would feel in her bed after a long fight.

* * *

She must have dozed off last night because the next time she opened her eyes, she was cleaned up and dressed, sitting on a train bench next to a window. Keigel was sitting across from her, sleeping with his head down and his arms crossed in front of him. The train was crowded with soldiers, but it was so quiet that the noise of the countryside outside the window overwhelmed that of the train. She stared at everyone, confused, then woke Keigel up.

"What happened? Why is everyone here?" She asked.

"Retreat order. The frontline is being pushed back. We have orders to go all the way back to Edinburgh to regroup. Looks like I'll be joining you in the academy." He said.

"I see."

Vancey looked around. Her belongings were here, packed neatly inside one backpack. The silence was deafening.

"Look, hey. I'm sorry about what happened last night." Keigel said. "I took advantage of you."

"No, it's okay. I sort of…" Vancey trailed off. The prospect of them joining the same squad just hit her. She raised her head, looking at him with a gleaming pair of eyes that no one would believe she came from a defeated army.

"Back up, kid. I'm married. You were vulnerable. And that is not a healthy way to move on from things."

"I didn't say anything." Vancey chuckled but retreated to the solemn. Keigel glanced at her once, sighed, and pulled out from his gear a bottle.

"Don't tell anyone. It's just some leftover whiskey. To the fallen?" He said, took a gulp and handed it to her. Vancey stared at it, hesitated, but took the bottle anyway. The first drop that touched her tongue nearly knocked her out of consciousness. She coughed like a sick one on deathbed.

"Careful, don't spill. You've never drunk before?"

Vancey ignored the question and took another sip. The strong taste hit her hard. Maybe as hard as Keigel did. But she liked it. It took her mind off things. Like Keigel did.

* * *

**Author's Note: I don't think Vancey and Keigel would have a romantic relationship. Theirs is one of mutual sympathy between veterans and squad members, understanding each other's suffering and needs. So the ending is more platonic than hinting at a ship. **

**All of that is to say Keigel was just an appropriate stand-in for the scene! Hope you enjoy.**


End file.
